


Truth is the Final Card in the Poker Game of Death

by youmaycallmemarth



Category: The Flintstones
Genre: Hanna Barbara, Prehistoric, cartoon, hitman - Freeform, killer caveman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-01-21 22:05:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12466908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youmaycallmemarth/pseuds/youmaycallmemarth





	1. Forgive me for what I must yabba dabba doo

The cold linoleum floor made Fred Flintstone's footsteps echo through the hall. He had done this many times. It was a quick job, just in and out. His job was more like a weekly routine, a part of his regular life, but it was not a regular job. Even though it was unusual, he liked being a hitman. Over the years he had perfected the perfect kill, exactly where to shoot, stab, or beat. He had come to fame in the world of backwaters and black markets, everyone knew his name as the best hitman you could hire - and for a reasonable price. He walked up to the dark oak door and knocked. Nobody answered. He put his foot to the door, he pulled it back and kicked. The door fell down and man was sitting there at the desk. “Are you here to kill me?” inquired the man. Fred lit a Winston cigarette and moved closer to the man. “You know I am Mr. Slate, now be a good boy and sit back. Maybe it won’t hurt at all or maybe it will feel excruciatingly painful.”  
“Please have mercy on me Fred! Don-”  
“Don’t call me by my first name, you weasel.” Fred kicked Slate hard in the shins. Fred pulled out his gun and fired. Slate’s body jolted when it took the bullet. Fred put his cigarette in Slate’s mouth and left.  
Back at his office Fred sat swiveling in his chair. He looked at his desk and saw the faded picture of Wilma accenting the walnut wood. He felt a surge of emotions come pouring from his mind, but held it in. “Hold it in you, Adonis. YOU ARE A MAN!” Fred composed himself and sat at eating his favorite meal: Brontosaurus steak and a glass of white Chardonnay. While he was eating he received a call. He let it ring twice then picked it up. “This is Mr. Flintstone, how may I help you?”  
“Hey Fred! Listen I need a job done.”  
“Any info I need to know?”  
“Short, blonde, speaks very bluntly, and he lives at the Bedrock View apartments.”  
“His name?”  
“Barney Rubble.” At the mention of his name Fred dropped the phone. Years ago he had tried to sever the connection between Barney and himself, but of course the little snail still tried to talk to him by showing up at Fred’s apartment and inviting him over constantly, but deep down Fred liked Barney. In fact, he was Fred’s best friend.  
“Fred, are you still there? Hello? Fred?”  
“Sorry, my hand slipped. Okay, it’ll cost you $10,560.”  
“Okay, can I send it to you in the mail or do you want it hand delivered?”  
“Hand delivered. Come on Thursday.”  
Fred looked at himself in the cracked mirror on the back of the door.  
“You idiot, you don’t have the guts to kill him,” Fred whispered to himself.  
“YES I DO.” his reflection yelled back.  
The next morning was wet and dreary. As Fred got up the fog hung low over the city and made Fred feel sleepy. “You got to do it today. Just go over and question Betty. Easy-peasy.” Fred got dressed and walked out the door, took the lift down, and got into his car. After 20 minutes of traffic, he reached Betty and Barney’s apartment. He buzzed the intercom and finally someone picked up.  
“Hello? Who’s this?” said a gentle voice.  
“Hi Betty, it’s Fred. Is Barney home?”  
“No. He left you a letter; you should come up.”  
The intercom buzzed, the door opened, and Fred took the lift up. He walked down the carpeted hallway slowly. Finally he reached their door. Fred gave three little knocks and stepped back.  
“Hi Fred how are you doing?” asked Betty.  
“Fine, how are you and Barney doing?” replied Fred.  
“Good, I suppose… do you want to come in?”  
“Why not.” Fred felt anxious like something was going to happen. He followed Betty through the door that read 301 and sat down at their kitchen table. There was a letter addressed to him written in blue ink. He reached over and grabbed it. He opened it while Betty came back and gave him a cup of tea. “Where’s Barney gone to?” said Fred his voice slightly shaking.  
“He’s left. It’s probably best if you read the letter Fred.”  
“Okay, is he coming back soon?”  
“I don’t know Fred, just read the letter.” said Betty agitated.  
“I’ll just leave then. Bye Betty.”  
“Bye Fred,” replied Betty somberly.  
As Fred walked to the door he heard her crying. He rested his hand on the door knob and paused. Slowly he opened the door listening to the creaks. He walked out while Betty’s sobs filled the hallway. Fred promptly shut it.  
Fred awoke the next morning while it was still dark out. He got up and teetered over to the candle on his dresser. Next to it sat the letter which was still unread. He pulled it out and read it. By the time he had read it the sun was starting to appear behind the skyscrapers out Fred’s window. From what Fred gathered, Barney knew he was being hunted down, but Barney was not the sharpest knife in the box and let some clues slip about his location. Fred got up and made himself his favorite drink, a White Russian. He drank while slowly walking out his building’s front door. He somberly walked down the cracked sidewalk. He stopped in at Stonebucks to get an espresso. Fred sat there pondering Barney’s letter on the rock chairs, he finally realized where Barney was hiding.  
Years ago Barney had managed to get Fred to take him on a killing. Barney’s job was boring so he wanted something exciting in his life. Fred begrudgingly took Barney to a warehouse outside of Rockhatten where his victim was hiding. Fred realized Barney probably thought that this was the safest place to hide in Bedrock. After a painstaking eight hours in his office, Fred walked home and put on his best suit and gun then set off for Rockhatten in his custom Rocks-Royce the convertible. After about 20 minutes of traffic he finally reached the warehouse. It had been abandoned years ago and lay in decrepit ruins with ivy covering it like a blanket. Fred slowly opened the door on the right for worker entry and snuck in. He gazed around admiring every hole in the roof and the collapsed support beams, Fred thought it was positively beautiful. He heard a scampering noise and a crash into a dumpster.  
“Barney I know you’re here, you’re not subtle. Come out here and show your face you coward.”  
Barney slowly emerged from behind a blue dumpster. “So you found me Fred. I had to leave. They’re gonna come after me.”  
“I know Barney it’s okay.” Fred pushed the pistol deeper in his hidden pocket. “Come on stand up let's get out of here.”  
“Okay.” Barney stood up and kicked Fred in the shins. Fred doubled over and headbutted Barney in the stomach. Soon a fight was taking place on a dirty warehouse floor. Finally Fred realized he had a gun and aimed it at Barney.  
“Fred you don’t know what you’re doing, think about it I’m your best friend.” Barney pleaded, while Fred moved closer to his target. “Is this for what I did to Wilma all those years ago?” asked Barney.  
“What are you talking about Barney.” Fred was shaking with anger and anticipation.  
“Fred it was an accident, i’m sorry.”  
“What did you do to her Barney!” screamed Fred.  
“I came out of the Loyal Order of Dinosaurs lodge, I had been drinking too much… I shouldn’t have been driving and… I got into an accident, crashed into three cars. Everyone seemed fine except for the second car, nobody got out of it. So I walked over and there was Wilma, she died. I gave everyone my insurance number then took her body and put it in the alley, to make it look like a murder.”  
“It was a murder Barney.”  
“Technically second degree murd-” but Barney didn’t get to finish that though because Fred punched Barney in the face. Shaking, Fred repositioned his gun over Barney.  
Barney spoke: “Fred, I’ve been your best friend for years, I’ve been there the entire time even when you tried to leave me I was still there when you turned around.”  
“I- I-. For the first time in a over decade Fred cried.  
“I haven’t cried since she died. I haven’t felt anything in years, all because of you, but I can’t kill you, you’re my best friend.”  
“I have an idea Fred, we just fake my death and everything can go back to normal.” said Barney.  
“No.”  
“What do you mean Fred?” inquired Barney.  
“I can’t forgive you, you killed her Barney, you killed her.”  
“Over time you will and we’ll be friends again.” Barney looked up at Fred hopefully.  
“No. I won’t, and I always finish the jobs I take. I never quit in the middle of the job.” said Fred coldly.  
“Start today. Get a new job we can move somewhere new.”  
Fred stood up keeping his gun on Barney. Fred’s tears made his vision blurred. Fred remained silent for a minute. Finally Fred spoke after what seemed like hours. Through his tears he said: “Oh Barney, Forgive me for what I must yabba.. dabba.. doo.”


	2. Menagerie of Horrors

The bottle of Vodka was empty again. It stuck out against the mundane background with its white brilliance and a shell that just begs to be smashed over the head of a neer-do-well. Fred grazed his calloused and blistered finger over the smooth bottle. Over the past few months, Marble Vodka™ had been his haven, a world away from the pain and suffering he had brought upon himself all those months ago. Fred paused and gazed out his dirty cracked window. His life was tediously clinging to the false hope that maybe something would work out, maybe this sick reality was just a game, and Fred, well maybe he was just a pawn in it. Fred felt the tears cascade down his face but in his mind, he denied their existence. He lit a Slate Stegosaurus Cigarette™ and tilted back onto his grimy bed. The aromatic smoke filled the minuscule apartment. That's what Fred liked about these cigarettes, they were made out of flowers and such so the sweet scent of the weeds filled your head with nonsense. Even smoking one of these didn’t help Fred. Deep inside of him, he thought of what he did to Barney all those cold, foggy nights long ago.  
Fred did his best to try and keep calm but in the night he would have nightmares of the fateful day. The patterns of Barney’s blood stains were permanently etched into his mind, and the fate of his late wife Wilma was too much for Fred to handle at times. Fred knew he could end the pain and the suffering now, his special granite handled pistol was always loaded and rested on his oak bedside table. But, something kept Fred from doing this. Something told him to keep living, to keep trying, to soldier on. But at the end of almost every day, Fred contemplated suicide. “I’m not man enough to do it. I’m too afraid.” Almost like a dream, he snapped back to reality and went to the gold frame mirror on his wall, and looked at his grizzled face. In one swooping motion, Fred smashed the mirror with his large hands. The mirror burst into a thousand tiny pieces that fell into a heap on his black Rock Marten’s. The crimson blood ran down his hands and pooled on top of the shattered glass. He stood there for a moment with the uncomfortable liquid seeping through is broken hands. Finally, he went into the bathroom and got gauze out of the cabinet. While he was cleaning his hands a swift knock rattled the old wood door.  
“Just a minute.” Said Fred loudly.  
Another quick but loud knock shook the door.  
“I said just a minute!”  
He finished his half-assed job of wrapping his hands and sauntered over to the door. Once he opened it a voice wafted into his dungeon-like apartment.  
“Is this Mr. F’s place?” A voice with a heavy Yankee accent inquired.  
“What the hell do you want?” Fred’s hungover growl answered back.  
“I heard that the man here has a special service that is very useful for people like me.”  
“And what are people like you?”  
“Let’s just say people that have a problem that needs to be taken care of.”  
“Alright, I’ll get you in contact with Mr. F. What’s your number kid.”  
He gave him the number and asked: “How much will it cost?”  
“You can sort it out when he calls you- if he ever does. He has a habit of never tying up loose ends. By the way what’s your name?”  
“Dan. Thanks, man.”  
The man shut the door and Fred took out a piece of yellowed paper and a leaky pen. He scribbled down the number and walked over the broken mirror to his closet. When he opened the door all his faded- but stylish clothes stared back at him. Fred grabbed the classic Rock Lauren slate grey coat and put it on. He walked over to the smashed mirror and picked up a big piece, carefully checking his reflection to make sure he didn’t look too drunk. Fred threw the piece down picked up his pack of smokes and strode out of his apartment and down the hallway into a new future.  
When he walked outside the cold fall air sent shivers through the people walking around the city but Fred felt none of these. His steel fortress blocked out physical pain now, the only thing he felt was the constant psychological torture he endured with every passing minute. He speed walked down the sidewalk and traveled down onto the subway system. It only took him 7 minutes to on the train to get to his office (a new record. Usually it takes 9 minutes). He walked through the bottom door and dashed up the stairs at the end of the hallway. It then took him too long to find the right key (a sign he hadn’t been there in awhile) and walked into his wood-paneled office. He sat down in the faded office chair and searched his pockets for that scrap of paper he wrote that number on.  
“Are you serious?” Fred asked exasperatedly “Where is that bloody piece of paper?”  
Finally, he found it buried deep inside his pants pocket. He dialed the number and someone picked up.  
“Hello, I’m looking for Dan is this the right number?” Fred asked the person on the other side  
“Yes, I’ll go get him. Wait a minute.” A female with a mellifluous tone responded.  
Fred sat there listening to the dead air for moments.  
“Hello.”  
“This Dan?” Fred got rid of his drunk voice and replaced it with a low rider voice.  
“Yeah, who's this?”  
“It’s Mr. F. You wanted to hire me?”  
“Yeah. How long will it take you?”  
“Depends on who it is. I only really do city work by the way.”  
“Perfect. You know Daddy Dino?”  
“Who?”  
“He’s the most notorious pimp in the city. He hangs out in Velociraptor Vic’s.”  
At the words: “Velociraptor Vic’s” Fred froze.  
“Hey, you there Mr... Mr... Mr....?”  
“Mr. F. Consider it done.”  
Fred walked out into the evening and light a cigarette. He got into his car a drove away.  
After what seemed like an eternity (14 minutes) he got into Vic’s parking lot. The evening had faded into the pitch black of night and it had started to rain. He got out of the car smoked the end of his cigarette and walked near the door.  
The nighttime rain was illuminated by a neon sign with a moving dinosaur drinking a martini. the brutal sign read: “Velociraptor Vic’s”. Fred swallowed hard and did his best to look calm as he walked through the door into his darkest nightmares.


End file.
